Ode
to the Car Keys
In
the late sixties we were so fed up we wanted to destroy it all. That's when we
changed the name of America and stuck in the "k". The mood today is different,
and the language that will respond to today's mood will be different. Things are
so deteriorated in this society, that it's not up to you to destroy America, it's
up to you to go out and save America. Abbie
Hoffman, National Student Convention '88, Rutgers University |
In
a burst of Dionysian FRIGHT you're
snagged keys
locked inside first
week first car in 16 years forced to ring a stranger's steel curtain door
for a healing coat hanger never used before dipped
in 19 consecutive generations of
herbal locksmith experimental libations but the magic potion hanger won't
fit in the
window till
you rip rubber insulation padding and
then doorknob comes only halfway up then back all the way down 50
times halfway
up and all the way down till
finally you realize this ain't gonna work So you call local police for help
but begin
screaming " You
broke Martin's new plastic jaw with
a Jim Crow hangman's billy club law! then casually describe your local
campaign plans to
institute civilian review board rock & roll bands that
would include 6-year olds with
no corporate two-party political bias so by the time you ask about
getting car door opened
all officers are busy and
locksmith equipment all locked up Just in time you remember a spare key
in your bedroom dresser hid
in pages of an old spiral notebook you
haven't looked at since heavy drinking days but you realize apartment's an
hour away and
front door keys on
your car key ring with
six others now easily countably floppy in the ignition O
keys, how brilliant your bright sunned reflection through
the passengerside window! O
shit
No wonder 16 years without a car and
today at work I'm driving an
8-months pregnant homeless Latina woman to
look at apartments She hasn't had house keys for awhile and
O My Keys she's getting nervous having
contractions while I'm only learning
to deliver messages but she knows he's coming early it's
a boy her last boy early one
before that too she
might have liked a girl they'll be no more apartments to see today that
she can't have despite
shiny new Section
8 rent subsidy certificate and only 5 more student loan repayments before
eligible
for new loans to paralegal school where
she'll study to lawyer once
she finds a legal home and you my car keys are in their proper place the
ignition but
the path is blocked &
I can't reach you no matter how I open cleansed
perception to
Blakean infinity of
blue skies above
Yvette feels guilty doesn't
want any Amandla Crossing Transitional
Housing residents to
hear of my screw up cause they'll think her bad luck so
I yell second time today: Don't
internalize everything! It's all me! I'm
Fucking Idiot for the Day this's absolutely no reflection on you! to
no avail she
still doesn't want me telling and
I feel guilty for losing my cool till she says at least I'm acting human
now not
like some ice cube social worker role
reversalheremid street wherever we're stuck with
keys where they're supposed to be but
not now please O keys not now please
not now not now not now not now not not not not not not now now now now now
now hypnotized
into iron trance depressed
about red tears dropping
my palm's longest line who would believe our story
when no more than two senators expressed
belief in
Anita Hill? Magically suspending disbelief doesn't
cut the
mustard tree of
earthly political justice and now a right-wing Supreme Court zealot can
help illustrate that ideology does not know rigid
ethnic or gender boundaries though
sociopolitical power up to this historic point mostly certainly does If
Anita Hill wasn't believed what
woman will? Surely
not 27 homeless women in our transitional housing program sure
not 50 kids with
homelessness carved
into cranial histories Yvette's worried, supposed to be back soon to
take her two kids out of daycare where
we left them with 48 others about
to throw 250 million p-i-e-c-e-s of a giant jigsaw puzzle of
the world or country or state can't
remember which onto
the floor Now that I think of it
it looked a
lot like the
American left or maybe Picasso's Guernica as
seen by Gert Stein after
reading Ulysses and
deconstructing the Cyclops chapter Yvette's supposed to be back by 5:00 my
watch stopped at 4:30 does
that mean I can't be late? O
my bright shining keys! o my!
Things could be worse!
I could be writing an ode to my clothes standing
naked here in Woodbridge groping
for an anti-Enlightenment edenic fig leaf technology while
Neruda gets angry with me for
ripping off his ideas while failing to
move the planet noticeably forward I could be waving pro-choice coat hangers
as lone
protection from extremist explosions of
toxic-dump land to
radioactive air missiles. I could be Father Aristede given
unceremonious boot by
U.S.-trained guntoting cahoots while
unknown mystery beings who look just like Tonton Macouts in
nonhuman-dimensional suits disappear
organizers against coups before
teary-eyed silent infant cries Before Yeltsinian greed took over Gorbachev
thank Compassion's Window returned
for a moment from
his long coupy trip I condemned that one right
away no
more anti-democratic acts in
socialism's name! The dream of the utopian left was to
lead Democracy's child into
new & underground parts of
the city not to try saving the city by
offering the child up as
sacrifice to
the latest books turned into the latest manufactured
biblicistic fractured
tylenol tablets Tip
those KGBCIA statues over! America I've given you all and
now what & where am I? With
the key thru the window? And
no one to drive the car? Over half our Canadian neighbors live
in provinces driven by
democratic left NDP while
here ozone layer disintegrates & any tourist can smell rotting
perfume riding NJ's Turnpike with
car windows open Where's
our New Democratic Party, my keys?
I measure every grief I meet with
probing eyes that are wider than
that slot between
window and locked doorknob here with me is a woman talking to death saying
no, I survived your phantoms saying
my kids and I will
beat you to the wheel this time and looked at this way car
keys don't matter what
kind of metaphor
is this? what the ability to drive a machine compared
to this? how
the literary canon stand
up to this? what kind of
home
is getting into a car anyway?
Yvette: What,
you suddenly have goddamned
time to
daydream NOW? And I laugh caught
in
the lack of
act thinking how beautiful it would feel jingling
keys in
my palm's eye
again After the modernists deconstructed what
that exists and
postmodernists added questions of
identity construction & appropriation to the equation that could never be
an equation
to them O
reasonable unreasonableness who
am I at this moment to them this
only jewish child of
a concentration camp survivor mom depression-pinched
chemistry dad now helpless outside a locked car? Who
is this pregnant homeless woman beside me whose
name I have changed to
write this poem now trying her luck with the door? Who
is that kicking her belly to
enter this polluted world before
it's ready? Who are these survivors of domestic violence, of injuries
that suck up the rent, teenaged mothers kicked out the house, drugged
out escape routes, AIDS ripping apart growing bones, father-in-law rapes,
local police badges branded on their bodies, 27 different unaffordable
reasons for homelessness, ten thousand reasons for the kids, without playgrounds,
tumbling on used heroin needles, bunkbed torched by racism's adult white
gasolined robes, dinner sacrificed for parental addictions to theft of
convictions, congress-dictated plutonium profitable neglect, 3 a.m. drunken
bangings on cardboard welfare motel doors, rusty handgun barrels armed
& aimed into the cradle's third eye, thunder lightning of 100 million
multinational sexual abuse nightmares, it's over it's over it's over it's
over there just ain't no reason for hope it's got to be over; no
I refuse to
give up hope
got to get those keys without
breaking the
window one
can't buy a new window 50 kids back home working on a jigsaw puzzle half
african-american, one-third
latino one-third white, one-quarter indian one-tenth
amerasian and one more tenth born
into pneumonia's infant
mortality death
grip O endless ironizing detachment into an ineluctable void! WHO IS GONNA
HELP THEM PUT THOSE PIECES TOGETHER?! O keys! Got to get you soon without
breaking the window O world!
Eliot Katz 1991-92 |